âYeah, thatâs right,â he said. âI used to hope sheâd come back, but she didnât.â
âSo did I,â Mom said. âFor a while.â
âThen the Owner wonât be back here, either?â
Mom looked at the room, with its end tables but no couch or armchairs and its two clean windows and three horrendous ones. Assiduous sweeping with bundles of weeds had revealed a floor of sunny caramel-colored tiles.
âNo, he wonât. This house is ours now. I just wish I could figure out how to get a new sofa.â
So Martin ran down the slope and across the tree-lined street to wash off his treasure in the pond. The glass candy was larger than life, and bolder, too. One piece was ringed with stripes of cobalt blue and lemon yellow. It had bright blue twists at the ends. One had orange ends and a cherry-colored center that turned the landscape crimson when he looked through it. Another was green glass swirled with what Martin swore were flecks of pure gold.
But best of all was the bowl itself. Dozens of small, round, frilly glass blossoms of every conceivable color crowded together beneath a layer of thick, clear glass. They looked like nothing he had seen before. They looked like flowers in an underwater garden.
Martin could only stare at the bowl. He knew no words ornate enough to describe its beauty. Beside him, Chipâs rapt expression mirrored his own.
â
Martin!
â
Dad was stomping down the pond bank toward them, his face puffy with anger. âStop ignoring me! What are you doing here? Youâre scaring the fish!â
âNothing. Just . . . nothing.â Martin instinctively curled his hands around his precious find.
âThen get back to the house and get to work. Youâve got cleaning to do.â And Dad stalked off down the muddy shoreline.
Martin ran back to the house.
âDonât slam the door,â Mom called reproachfully. âYouâre scattering the dust.â
Martin stashed his beautiful bowl in a kitchen cabinet and then burst into the room where she was cleaning.
âI hate this!â he yelled. âI never wanted him to come here. Weâd be doing great without him; youâd be painting pictures and stuff, and Iâd be learning great things about new bugs. But look, heâs got us all scared just like he is, and stuck in another house, wiping counters and looking at everything through a bunch of dirty windows.â Anger swelled inside him, all his rage over Dad sending Martinâs little sister away to die. âI hate him! I do. I wish he hadnât come.â
Mom stood still, looking away from him. She said, âI donât know why youâd say such a thing about your father.â
I know why, Martin thought. I know a whole packet car full of reasons why. I could tell you why, and then youâd hate him too.
âAll I can say,â Mom went on, âis that if your father werenâthere, I donât think I could stand it. Maybe youâd be having the time of your life, but I would be very unhappy.â
Martin ran out of the house and slammed the door again. He noticed that Chip caught it with a back foot to keep it from making a noise, and for a second, his quarrel even extended to his dog. Dad was taking it easy on the bank, slowly reeling in an empty line. Martin charged up to him, and the surprise on Dadâs face must have equaled the fury on his.
âShe doesnât know!â Martin shouted. âShe thinks youâre so great, taking care of us and all, but thatâs only because she doesnât know. I could tell her, and then sheâd hate you too. And it would serve you right!â
âKnow what?â
Dadâs face looked pinched and cautious and silly, like the old man he would be one day, like the ridiculous spectacle he was without his clothes on. Martin felt slimy all over. He threw himself down on the bank next to Dadâs tackle box and
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